Lovely
by The-Rose-Has-Wilted
Summary: A Story of someone loving someone else. Read and find out who. Please don't flame if it's not a pairing you like


Lovely

therosehaswilted.

I don't own Xiaolin Showdown. Warning for swearing. Try to guess the pairing, but **Be Warned: Don't expect it to be what you expect. Please don't flame if it's no one you like. You have been Warned.**

linelineline

You see, there's something to be said for being satisfied. Now, how you go about it can take a number of directions. But, you have to ask yourself, what direction does that take for someone who already has everything? Or, I should say, almost anything.

You don't know, now do you. You don't know what I don't have. In fact, you don't even know who I am. You don't know because I haven't told you yet. I'm not sure I will. Let's see if you can guess.

Now I'm always one for a good game of cat and mouse. And being in a world of evil can leave you hurting, licking your wounds while they tell you to move on, get on, get going with your life. And then they turn away. And that's fine with me; I'm not what you'd call social. I don't mean a social outcast. I like my air of dignity. I was born with it.

I sighed, a black jumpsuit is clinging to my thighs again, the stretchy fiber fits like gloves, or hot, melted plastic on your skin. And I could say that this is a comforting feeling. Not because it feels good, but because I've of done it before. Soon it is raining in Tokyo. It's coming down on my head, as I duck from awning to awning, trying to stay dry. Perhaps it's not very dignified, but I hate water. It ruins the mascara on my eyes, long and luscious lashes wilted and lumped. I can't stand it. Tuna was in my mouth a moment ago, but now I'm tossing around in the ally, like trash thrown down in the gutter, trodden upon by the sorest of souls.

And I can't stand this thinking of you. I don't want to think of you. I want to think of my own luxury, inside one of the most expensive apartments in the whole city, fire the only light, holding refuge from the pelting rain, hiding in the modern design.

But I can't.

I don't know when or where or how it started, but I can tell you she's all I think about now. I don't like loving her, but I've learned how to figure her into the equation while finding a way to figure her out.

You know the way some people appear before you like puzzles, lying there like a Rubik's cube, all jumbled up with your espresso at the local coffee house? Well, she isn't like that. Fire shoots out her eyes when she's angry, her face turned upside down in anger, little lips pouting, nearly exploding.

And her hair was sooty, like the bark on a thick, black tree; pure black, but it looks often enough like she had late a paint-stripper loose on her head. But that was fine with me, and it is fine with me today. She could never control herself. But she seemed strong enough to destroy her own mind. I wouldn't be sad if that were the case. You'd think that I've been around enough to be smart enough to stay the fuck away from her.

But I'm not.

And that's still something I need to work on. But every time I see the look in her eyes, I am swimming. But I hate to swim. So you'd think I'd learn. But it's her nutty flavor that keeps brining me back to her, to look her in the eyes, steal her away, and rob her blind of everything she's got. She's kind of like some sort of fine wine, you can't open the bottle to early, and destroy the flavor. You have to prepare yourself for it. Wait a year or seventeen. Then, put on your best white gloves, travel out to the south of France in mid- July, bringing your cooler full of ice. Take out one chilled, tall white glass, and a sprig of rosemary on an empty plate. You pour it slowly, tipping the glass just so, keeping it cool. Then you turn, looking out over the bottom of a heavy wooden Dutch door in a cottage kitchen, staring out at the French pasture and countryside, with a solitary shade tree outside.

And you inhale slowly, letting the wine permeate your senses, looking at the big cumulous clouds above the land, and let your lipsticked lips purse, and tip the glass up, allowing a tiny mouthful of nectar down your throat. Sit there all day, through the hot afternoon, thinking your life over, staying seated until the glass is empty and the solitary streetlight is collecting bugs, and the clouds break way for a view of the full white moon. That's how you would enjoy her.

At least, that's what I plan to do. It may not be graceful, but I could put her in a bag, bring her to Paris to look at the art and the sculptures. And then I'd kiss her, right in front of everyone. My toes curl as a happy meow escapes my throat. What a pleasant thought.

So, I'll ask you again: have you guessed who I am yet? Have you guessed who I'm talking about? Probably not.

Maybe I'll write her a letter. That's a dignified way to die as ever. But I don't plan on dying. Because I plan on getting what I want, like I always do. And I will fight her I f I have to, because I'm much better at fighting that that robot-building buffoon. The old hag can't help but fall in love with my masterful technique. I know I would. And , she can offer me anything again, but I won't take it this time. The one thing I want now is something she can't give me.

linelineline

I know this was brief, but, what do you think? If you didn't guess, the pairing was Katnappé/Kimiko. Woot! I think this maybe the only one of these on this sight. By the way, sorry I didn't say it was femmeslash at the beginning, but I wanted you (the reader) to guess who the heck I'm going on about. Please review.


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